


The Games We Play

by charnelhouse



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Blood Kink, Bodily Fluids, Caretaking, F/M, Female Ejaculation, Gore, Gunshot Wounds, Hand Jobs, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Painplay, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Smut, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:01:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28903068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charnelhouse/pseuds/charnelhouse
Summary: August Walker's new partner unnerves him - even when she gets shot.
Relationships: August Walker/Original Female Character(s), August Walker/Reader
Kudos: 21





	The Games We Play

He shouldn’t be surprised (not really). 

He watches as you shakily unzip your tac suit - your hands are small - graceful. He recalls the smooth balm of them when you had wrapped your fingers around his cock before the mission had even begun. You had bitten into his throat and made him come - sloppy and glistening - onto the hideout’s wooden floor. 

It had _unsettled_ him. You had caught him by surprise with your voice in his ear - _c’mon, let me blow off some steam before we start._ His nose in your hair - his knuckles turning white as they gripped the edge of a table. He had stared at a cheap painting of a cat - some kitsch art-horror by the motel owner - he had _stared_ to keep himself grounded and to keep himself from coming too fast. When he finished - you had licked your fingers clean, and as he tried to stick his hand down your pants - you had shoved him away.

_No time for that, Walker._

There was a game here that August was not privy to. There was something too sharp in your smile - something strange in the way you matched him in everything. You even _fought_ like him - messy and feral and a little ugly.

They’d spent a week in this motel room. A week where you had pestered him for details about his career - his experience - his life in the CIA. He had blocked you at every turn. 

_It’s not interesting._

_It’s work, I guess._

_No - I did not kill that warlord in Tunisia._

You weren’t exactly new. He _knew_ of you. He knew that you were skilled and essential and perhaps a tad uncontrollable, which was probably why you had been _given_ to him (or he to you). Sloane had dumped you into his lap with an expression that read, _let’s see how the two of you work, and if you don’t - well, one of you will probably kill the other, and that’s just fine._

It had always been about survival of the fittest, and August was _August_. _The Hammer._ The top of the fucking food chain.

He wasn’t exactly cowed by a pretty girl who gave excellent hand jobs.

 _However -_ you did unnerve him, and he wasn’t quite sure why.

* * *

He wasn’t sure until the mission where you kill one of their marks with a kitchen knife. Afterward, he tries to force you under the sink because they can’t very well walk outside with your hands soaked red. 

As he drags you forward, you stare up at him and proceed to lick your hand (lick it just like you licked his warm spend from your fingers)

August... _trembles._ (Not like he gives it away)

* * *

It is right then that he starts to put it together.

_They’re both nut cases._

_They’re fire and gasoline._

_They fight like they’re bred for it._

_You’re like him. He’s been looking in a mirror. The dark side of a two-face coin that sparks gold at all the right moments and turns to rust in the dark._

He watches you at the sink - your generous lip pulled white between your teeth. He can still feel your touch on him - your tongue at his ear - the smell of you soft and lovely and reminding him strangely of his childhood home where his mother placed orchids on every surface she could. 

And you had _refused_ him - refused his hand and most likely his mouth which would undoubtedly have made you come like a damn freight train. You had put him at a disadvantage. He didn’t like it.

_Fuck._

* * *

And then - _and then_ \- you get yourself shot when you’re trying to extract data from their mark’s computer. 

A lone security officer manages to shoot you from the entryway.

In a sense - it had been his fault. He should have kept an eye on the second door, but you were bending over, and you were also pointedly ignoring him as he tried to get you to _come the fuck on - the alarm has been set off_.

But - you just _needed_ more information - more data - more material that would make Sloane _no doubt_ titter with excitement.

While you're grasping at your torso - August dispatches the guard with his hands on his throat - savoring the sharp crack of bone - the echo of the man’s last breath as he slumps to the floor. 

_A laugh. Deep_ and raspy and broken by a cough.

You're laughing at him. Blood spurting hot and black from your side, and you _still_ manage to laugh at him.

“What could possibly be funny?”

You glance down at the dead guard - the graphic twist of his neck. Your pink tongue flicks over your lower lip - a sheen of sweat beginning to coat your forehead.

“You love to use your hands, don’t you?”

* * *

He watches you breathe through the pain - watches you prod a finger into the tiny, smoky hole near your ribs. 

He watches your skull fall back - your hair soft in the dismal motel light. You sigh - long and loose. 

He had crushed your hand in his as he drove them back to their hideout. He hated Vermont. He hated all the fucking trees and all the black ice and whistling wind.

He kept his eyes on the billboards: _Look at that - there’s a strip club off the next exit - a Dairy Queen - a personal injury lawyer named Shane - a McDonalds._

Your head had lolled to the side - your eyes glinting in the shadows of the car. 

“What are you doing?”

“Distracting you.”

You had raised an eyebrow at him - baffled.

He had shut his mouth after that - clicking his teeth and clenching his jaw while your hand hung limply in his own.

* * *

Back _here_ \- back in this shitty fucking bathroom with lime tile and yellow light and a dirty mirror - he sees you undress - he sees you flinch - he sees you shudder when a stream of scarlet blood slips down your bare thigh. 

He shouldn’t be fucking surprised. 

He really shouldn’t.

But - he’s hard.

His cock is uncomfortably pressing up against his belt, and it’s _only_ because of the way you are handling pain. You’re unphased - you’re irritated - you’re stone in a case of flesh.

He yanks off his vest - his shirt - the air from the open window burns cold across his chest. He grabs his medical kit before bodily lifting you up and dropping you on the counter. 

“Fuck,” you snap. “That hurt.”

“Sorry.” He isn’t. 

Perhaps - he wants to push you a little - see how much you can take - how much could he _do_ until tears prick at your eyes and your lip trembles?

He holds himself back.

He grabs the antiseptic - the tweezers - the bandages. 

You surprise him again. 

You stroke him - running a flat finger over the gnarled, white scar at his shoulder. 

“How many times have you been shot?”

He shrugs. “A lot.”

“Third time for me.”

_Of course._

He pours antiseptic over the wound, and your back arches - your breathing hitched (another rush of arousal down to his gut). 

_Not now. Not now. Not now._

He gets to work - the tweezers clumsy and slippery in his hand as he tries to dig the bullet out. You don’t cry or squeal or do much of anything but stare down at him with a curious, tender expression that makes him uncomfortable. 

“Use your fingers,” you finally mutter.

He stands up. “What?”

“Your fingers can get it out - those tweezers aren’t doing anything.”

He swallows - that unbearable ache in his groin hitting its crescendo. The bathroom smells of copper - and sweat - and you slump against the dirty mirror as your hands shake. Your face is pallid - sick, and your blood is all over his hands - his chest and stomach - he glances in the mirror and sees some on his chin. He bites back a groan. 

_Jesus, he’s fucked up._

“Don’t be a baby,” you murmur - your words are beginning to mingle - sliding into a slur. 

“I’m not a baby,” he bites back. “I’m just - just figuring out how to put my fingers in there without stretching it more.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

He pointedly ignores that. Your eyelids flutter. 

“Hey,” he nudges. “Don’t fall asleep.”

“Just do it,” you reply - a little more strength - more assertiveness. “I don’t mind the pain.”

He cleans his fingers before crouching down. “It’s gonna hurt - a lot.”

You nod.

He starts, and it’s _not good_. He’s usually more precise - he’s an excellent shot, and his hands _never_ shake. But - there’s so much fucking blood, and his fingers feel fat as they first breach the narrow wound in your side. His face is practically smashed into the lace over your tits - his nose brushing up your sternum. Your nails dig into the planes of his back - and if he _weren’t_ trying to yank a slug from your body - this position would allow him to slide his dick into you slow, and he very much needs to stop thinking about _fucking_. 

He tries to think of things to say - ways to comfort you because he catches on to your frantic panting - your entire body shaking as he digs and _digs_. 

Finally - you scream.

He should be smug about it - pleased that you finally revealed the end of your threshold. He’s _not_. 

He grazes the hard line of the bullet and exhales. “Got it,” and then, like an afterthought, “You’re doing really well.”

It’s an awkward compliment, and it’s one that makes you choke on a laugh. “Good job, Auggie.”

He bristles - _fine - he’d let you get away with that one_.

As he pulls the bullet free - he feels your touch on his brow - fingertips smoothing the wrinkles as he concentrates on saving your damn life.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

The bullet _tings_ as he drops it into the sink.

* * *

He carries you to the bed after he bandages you. You’re annoyed, but your knees had buckled the second you’d jumped down from the sink. 

He’d grinned. “Looks like you need my help.”

“Whatever.”

He _gets_ it. You hate feeling weak - you hate feeling like you need someone else (even after he’d just had his fingers inside you to stop you from bleeding out). Perhaps it’s pride -a twisted form of it.

Regardless - he _understands_ you.

When he places you on the mattress, your hands at his neck tug him with you (surprisingly firm despite the blood loss), and he stumbles - nearly falling on top of you before he manages to roll to the side. 

“What the fuck?

“Lie with me.” You’re giving him a sidelong glance - no suggestion or tease in your voice. He shifts as he settles into the thin bedding. 

“I need to shower,” He pets at his chest - the dark hair sticky with _you_. His cock twitches beneath his pants.

“Later,” you mutter as you rest your head on the threadbare pillow - the slip gone yellow. 

_Strange girl._

He scrubs his hands over his face before he lies down next to you - a useless effort to clear his head. He stares up at the ceiling - at the water damage and peeling paint. With his eyes - he traces the patterns of dark - the cobwebs in the corners. He’s uncomfortable - unsettled in his skin, and everything inside him wants to jump out - wants to make him run for the shower and then leave you behind.

Instead - he stays where he is. _Why is he even humoring you with this?_

Out of nowhere - he feels your hand on his belly - your palm cool as you stroke over muscle and fat - the white, gnarled tissue from another bullet wound that never healed quite right. He curses himself when he shivers - _briefly._

He’s not quite sure what to do, so he touches you back - his hands (still smelling of iron and antiseptic) brush over your bandages - his thumb curving over the wound specifically. You shudder, your nails digging into the meat of his abdomen. 

His mouth goes dry. “You like that?”

Your eyes are on him - glittering and unmistakably raw. He could leave you like this - leave you hanging - leave you vulnerable and soft while he goes to clean himself. He could leave you as you left him with his cock out and his spend on the floor.

He doesn’t - of course.

He’s been half-hard all night, and he _wants_ you. He wants you in an ugly way that makes him question his self-control. He’s never been like this with anyone: uncertain and on edge.

His thumb nudges the wound in your side again, and your back arches. He hardens his voice.

“I asked if you liked that?”

_Yes._

He leans forward, and his mouth crushes yours. It’s wet - clumsy with the pump of his tongue and his fingers holding your face steady. He tastes blood - the copper finish of it, and he’s not surprised because the whole damn room smells like a slaughterhouse. But - _there_ \- beneath it - is _you_ \- orange blossom and musk and lipstick.

“I want...”

He hushes you as he straddles your thighs - leaning forward so he can trace your bandages with his tongue, nose nuzzling into a sore bend. He’d like to know about you - about what has carved you into this - a girl who enjoys a little pain in her sex.

_She’s like you, Walker, and you know all the things that have burned you - that have ruined you and broken you - that have honed you into what you are today._

_He imagines you in so many words - what you’d tell him. I know about pain, August. I know about it becoming part of you - I know about it making you whole. I know about not feeling life without it._

_Yes - he was very aware._

He’s moving between your thighs - his waist and chest still dirty - your skin coated in a thin film of old sweat. He hitches one of your thighs over his shoulder - the pressure of your heels digging into his lower back. He tugs your underwear to the side, and it’s already soaked. Cotton panties that seem out of place next to that lace thing that is holding your tits. He presses his nose to your pussy, and he inhales - the musk, the soapy girl essence, the tickle of iron from the blood drying on your belly. 

You startle. 

“You can’t be serious,” you protest. You sit up too fast - sending white-hot pain lancing through your torso. “ _Fuck!_ ”

His mustache brushes over the cotton that covers your cunt. Your _smell_ is nearly getting him off - making him involuntarily jerk his hips into the mattress.

“I’m all gross,” you manage to whine, and he looks up at you, surprised. 

Anxiousness paints your features - your hands at his shoulders, ready to push him off. 

He gapes at you.

_You’re okay with two of his fingers buried between your ribs, but you draw the line at him eating you out when you’re unshowered and filthy?_

“I don’t care about that, sweetheart,” he husks - tongue dragging over fabric as he feels you shiver. “I like how you smell, and I sure as fuck will enjoy how you taste.”

“I thought we were just - you know - fucking.”

_Wasn't oral sex a form of fucking?_

“We can’t,” he points out as he presses his lips to the inside of your knee. “I can’t fuck you like I want to - not when you’ve lost that much blood.”

You pull your lip between your teeth - an expression that he finds alarmingly attractive.

“And I do want to,” he mutters as he drags your underwear down your legs. “God, you don’t know how fucking bad I want to, but I can only do _this_.”

His thumb rides the slit of your cunt - pressing crudely before it slips inside.

Your head tips back - as he watches your legs widen for him. He’s reading you through - waking up pieces of you with faint touches of his fingers and mouth, and Jesus fuck, he wants to give you his cock - desperately and furiously until you can’t walk.

“Are you going to let me taste you,” he grunts - burrowing his thumb deeper.

“Shit,” you whisper, and he grins.

* * *

He doesn’t know what’s come over him. He wants to devour you whole - your body touched by death - the wound weeping dark over the canvas of your skin. He marvels at how your color is slowly returning to normal - warm from the pleasure he is providing.

August was world-class at eating pussy. The CIA had put him on his first honeypot mission when he was 20 - and he soon discovered that he could get secrets by way of a woman’s cunt - by twisting his fingers and sucking their clits and groaning all the while. It was easy - it worked a charm - and they would come like a fountain and then tell him everything - government secrets, financial records, nuclear codes, the location of a hostage.

But he is here now - with his head shoved between your knees, and he wonders if you squeezed him more forcefully, would his head would pop like a grape?

He admires your cunt - the gleaming wet shine to your folds - the pale touch of the moon through the motel window - skimming your flesh and reflecting off those white bandages. 

He slowly touches his tongue to you, and you buck underneath him. He places his forearm over your hips.

“Sorry,” you peer down at him - eyes beautifully half-slit. “It’s been a while.”

And fuck, that turns him on. 

He eats you out slow, curling his tongue and suckling - crooking his finger so that he can rub at the spongy patch inside you. You try and put your pillow over your face, but he snatches it away.

“I want to hear you,” he demands - his voice muffled over your pussy.

You groan for him - deep and desperate until he bites the sensitive skin of your groin before tugging a lip into his mouth. You cry out - jerking so violently that a stitch breaks. - blood blooming under the bandage, and when he raises his head, you tell him _no, no, keep going. I like it._

It’s all making him unbearably hard. He moves his other hand to his crotch - ripping his zipper down so that he can palm himself. _It’s not enough_.

He shrugs his pants down to mid-thigh - his cock heavy and leaking as he strokes himself before rutting into the mattress - imagining what it would be like to fuck the tight, silky grip of your pussy, instead.

“Fuck August,” you pant. “That’s so good. That’s so good.”

He nurses at you with his tongue - the bud of your clit hot between his lips. He wants to _ruin_ you. He wants to make you wail with it - bring tears to your eyes.

He lets go of his cock and sits back on his haunches. He places his free hand on your belly to pin you down, his other hand working you brutally - thumb over your clit while three fingers plunge inside you over and over until you shudder and clutch at his arms - searching for _anything_ to hold onto. 

"Yeah, darling," he hums. "C'mon, ride it out for me."

He feels you clench around him - feels your walls convulse - and _there_ \- you burst open like a fountain - drenching his hand and the scratchy sheets as you lurch up against him and _sob_.

He’s overwhelmed by it, and so he ducks his head down and kisses you. He lets you taste yourself in his mouth - your smooth cheek scraping against his stubble as he fingers you through the rest of your orgasm.

“Good girl,” he soothes, and even though your expression is half-drunk - even though your cunt is still spasming around his fingers - you glare at him. 

Your defenses are swiftly climbing back up, and - out of some strange desire to see you weak for him again - he dives back between your legs. He tongues at your sopping sex, and you practically scream as you rip into his hair to tug him away from you.

“Too sensitive,” you protest, but he holds himself there - holds your thighs down so he can see how puffy and slick and dark he has made you - leering as he watches you gape around nothing.

“You need it again, don’t you?” he urges.

You make a sound as you fall back against the bed.

He feels you relax - you let go of his hair as he helps you push your knees back up.

_I’ll take that as a yes._

* * *

He drops down next to you - his chin wet - and you drag him to your mouth - kissing him furiously - tongue stroking around his as you cradle his jaw. Your hand reaches for his cock, and he stops you.

“Not tonight, pet,” he says. “You need to sleep.”

“That’s not very fair.”

He chuckles. “If you touch me right now, I will fuck you, and your stitches won't stop me." He looks down at you - thumb brushing over your swollen lip. "I’d fuck you through it.”

You cough - eyes wide and round. “What if I wanted that.”

He studies you, pushing your hair back from your face. He could - he really _could_ , but he doesn’t need you passing out or getting an infection. He also likes keeping you on edge. He can wait.

“No,” he murmurs, and you shrug - allowing him to pull you against his chest. You go boneless, and he _feels_ your breathing slow - the gentle rasp of it whistling against his abdomen.

He recalls in perfect detail how you had looked when he had made you come - how he could taste the flutter of your heart as you clenched down on his tongue. There had been something _new_ on your face - something genuine.

 _He’d surprised you_. 

He no doubt had looked the same after you had stroked him to completion and left him hanging - left him staring back at you like an idiot. 

He smiles to himself - his hands dragging through the matted mess of his chest hair. He lifts it to smell his fingers - come and blood. He groans.

He _could_ shower - his win over you is sitting thick in his chest. He could also just _go home_.

He attempts to channel that cruelty that drives him - that funnels molten and quick through his veins. That cruelty that he is so well known for.

_Leave her. Leave her here. Leave her alone. Better yet - you could fuck her and then leave._

No - he shouldn’t.

He feels you snuggle closer - feels your cheek warm above his pumping heart.

He had the advantage - he’d consider that a success for now.


End file.
